


Heaven and Hell Were Words to Me

by uncomposed



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, it's a love story I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:44:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19771372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncomposed/pseuds/uncomposed
Summary: Samantha met a man that she should never have met but fate had other plans. They were not meant to be together but the path of truth love never did run smooth.William T. Spears x ocTrigger warning: Graphic depiction of suicide





	Heaven and Hell Were Words to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friend!  
> This is my first Kuroshitsuji fanfic so please be nice!  
> As I mentioned in the summary, there will be a graphic depiction of suicide in a later chapter. I'll make sure to put a note before that chapter so you can skip it if you need to. Please take care of yourself!  
> Enjoy!

Her father had died. Or was dying? She wasn’t sure. As the door to his bedroom creaked open, she held her breath, hoping to hear the ragged sound that assured his survival. She heard the rattling of his lungs trying to gasp in air. The young girl mentally sighed in relief. The floors creaked as she walked toward his bed. The room was cleaned meticulously, every surface had been dusted at least twice this week. Anything to keep her busy, anything to keep her eyes off of him. Unwillingly, she looked at her father. His face was pale and sunken, his brown hair stuck to his forehead from sweat. He had been sick for a long time, it felt like years though it had surely only been a few months. It was incurable and all they could do is make him feel comfortable. He had been sleeping more than anything these days. She hoped that he was peaceful in his unconscious state. 

Watching him be in pain was difficult, sure, but the most difficult thing had been waking up each day and wondering if that was the day she would be alone. She lost all of her friends and her potential suitors when he got sick. Everyone insisted that such a young girl should not have to shoulder the burden, that she should throw her father to the curb and spend her time elsewhere. She is ashamed to admit that she considered it briefly but every time she would remember the time that she was a sick with the flu. He waited on her faithfully, getting her soup and fresh wettened towels for her forehead. She remembered the weight of his head on the bed, slouched over in a chair, not wanting to leave her side for a moment. He always made her feel safe. He played both the part of the mother and the father. She never knew her mother. She died during childbirth, and as much as the girl wished for a mother, she was never without. She could thank her father for that. So, whenever someone _tsked_ at her lost youth, she could only smile. A love a child has for their parent is a remarkable thing.

So, when she saw him shakily inhale, a bittersweet mix of relief and pain made her blink away tears. This feeling was nothing new. The room was still dark. She had awoken at 6 in the morning, starting her duties as his nurse, and then she would rush to work as a secretary to afford the medicine her father needed to stay comfortable. She sighed to herself, running her fingers through her long, brown hair. It was exactly like her fathers, but she had her mother’s eyes. He drew in another desperate breath. “Okay, papa. Time to take your medicine,” she said, looking at the bottles lining his bedside table. The birds tweeted through the open window, a sure sign the sun would soon rise. Another day.

She quickly glanced out the window, the sun hadn’t risen fully yet. Slow rays peaked through the trees, lighting the room in a gentle glow. For her, this just meant that she still had time before she had to go to work. She looked back at the bottle and then heard a soft thud just behind her. She turned without thinking and there stood a man. 

He was primly dressed, had rectangular glasses, and held a pair of pruners in his left hand and a book in his right. He pushed the bridge of his glasses up with the pruners, not looking up from the book in his hand. After him, another man dressed similarly to him landed feet first into the room. His hair was lighter than the first, with similar rectangle glasses, and carrying a lawn mower. She blinked at the pair. “Hey, William,” the second man awkwardly called. 

“What, Ronald?” The man, presumably William, asked without looking up.

“Can she see us?” Ronald asked with a furrowed brow. He leaned on his lawn mower, tilting his head at the woman in the room.

William snapped his head up. She looked at him, wondering if she should be afraid. William blinked at her and snapped the book closed. “It seems so,” he sighed. “This is going to require paperwork.” 

Ronald groaned. She swallowed awkwardly. “P-p-pardon me,” she started. “But, who are you?”

Neither man moved. Then Ronald looked at William expectantly, drawing another exasperated sigh from him. “Forget we were ever here,” he stated without inflection.

“B-b-but, why are you here?” She asked gently. 

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Of course, it’s my concern. You’re in my house!” She exclaimed, incredulously. 

Ronald smiled sweetly towards her. “Oh, please forgive William here, he’s such a stick in the mud. He sure doesn’t know how to treat such a beautiful lady like yourself.” He leaned forward, grabbed her hand, and placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand. 

She smiled politely in response. “Well, my father is not up for visitors at the moment, I’m afraid, so I’ll have to ask you to return at a different time,” she said. She was never good at being confrontational, but she tried her best.

William looked at her. “Is your father Jonathan Wilson?”

“Yes. I’m his daughter, Samantha.”

Ronald winked at her. “What a beautiful name!” he exclaimed, leaning closer to her. In response, she leaned farther back.

“Thank you,” she responded flatly. 

“We are here to take his soul,” William said emotionlessly, flipping open the book again.

“Wh-what?” she asked, her face filling with panic.

“Yes,” William said, reading along with what was written in the book. “Jonathan Wilson, aged 46. Died of lung cancer, May 24 6:43 am. As of right now…” William glanced quickly at his watch, “it is 6:40, which means you have 2 minutes and 26 seconds to ask any questions you may have.”

Samantha swallowed uncomfortably. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“What are you?”

“Death reapers,” Ronald answered, scandalously raising his eyebrows. This was like a show to him. 

“Where are your scythes then?”

“Right here,” Ronald said lifting his lawn mower. “His is the dumb scissors.”

“Pruners,” William corrected.

“Oh, I thought they would have looked more like…scythes,” she finished lamely.

“Yes, these are special ones,” Ronald smiled.

“Okay,” Samantha breathed. “Why can I see you?”

William pushed his glasses up again. “I’m not sure. Some people who are close to death can see us but you’re not on our list today.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to kill me?”

“You’re safe for now, sweet cheeks,” Ronald said, leaning even closer. Samantha leaned back even farther, almost knocking down some bottles.

“It’s time. You can leave if you want,” William said, looking at his watch. She stepped away from the bed as the two men walked closer to it. Jonathan Wilson looked peaceful for the first time in months. The light began to filter into the room, bathing it in a red light. A swift stab to her father’s chest garnered a large gasp from her. Ronald looked at her briefly but looked back at Jonathan. They watched the reel of his life, brief but longer than most. Everything was in order, and with a quick snip, he was dead. 

This, of course, was all unbeknownst to Samantha. He breathed his last ragged breath and was still. She waited a tick, hoping another gasp of breath would escape his lips but it never came. It was strange and almost surreal. It didn’t feel like this was really happening, it was a dream. Tears streamed down her face anyway without her knowing. A stamp was put into the book, the book was snapped closed, and they turned towards her. “He has passed,” William said officially, adjusting his glasses again.

“He…he died?” Samantha asked, sobbing silently.

“Yes,” William responded. Without a word, she quickly wrapped her arms around him and buried her head in his chest. William tensed as she sobbed into his jacket. He blinked, unsure of what to do. This is the first time anyone has touched him in centuries and it wasn’t…unpleasant. It was actually kind of nice. 

On Samantha’s part, through her grief-wracked sobs, she was able to smell him. He smelled like mothballs and old books. It smelled soft and comforting. After a moment, she pulled herself off of his chest, her arms not yet leaving his sides. “Thank you,” she sobbed and pulled in again. “Thank you so much.” William’s heart melted. She was thanking him. She was most unusual. He tried to ignore the bubbling heat in his stomach. 

She eventually untangled herself from him. He could no longer meet her eyes. She wiped the tears off of her cheeks awkwardly. Ronald pouted. He wanted to hug the pretty girl. 

“Well, I should get started on planning the funeral,” she said sadly, looking at her father’s body.

William swallowed and nodded. He jumped out of the window quickly, not daring to look back. What was this feeling? His heart was racing, his stomach was in knots, the places which she touched him burned. As he waited for his partner, he stared at the rising sun, feeling an emotion he could not place. All he could do is hope that this feeling would pass. 

Ronald waved quickly to Samantha and followed his partner. She was alone, again. More tears fell but she did not bother with them. Instead, she looked at her father. She was never going to hear his laugh again. Never hug him again. Never argue over whether Poe or Wilde was a better writer (it was obviously Wilde, Samantha would argue, earning a large exclamation of disagreement from her father). This was an ending, to his suffering but also to his life. It was so bittersweet, that all she could do is stare at the rising sun and hope that this feeling would pass.


End file.
